


Rinse and Repeat

by MikeWritesThings



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:17:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MikeWritesThings/pseuds/MikeWritesThings
Summary: "You worry too much," Octavio said, and Elliott gave a strained smile in response as the other took his hand. "Chill, cariño."(or: the psychological effects of killing your boyfriend over and over and over again.)
Relationships: Mirage | Elliott Witt/Octane | Octavio Silva
Comments: 6
Kudos: 87





	Rinse and Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> tw:// canon typical violence but with a bit more blood than ususl since i actually describe the violence now instead of a passing "x killed x"  
mentions of anxiety and symptoms of ptsd  
there isn't really a satisfying or happy ending its just an angst fest sorry  
lmk if i need to tag anything else!
> 
> i think miroctane are fluffy dumbasses so of course i wrote this. technically i wrote this last month but i forgot about it lol

Mirage won the very last game before they left Kings Canyon.

It marked his seventh win that season, which paled in comparison to Wraith’s eleven, but was at least better than Wattson’s five. He had slain the latter in the top three, robbing her of a sixth win, and in the final ring, round seven, managed to gain the upperhand on Bangalore for the first time since season one. Those battles should have been fresher in his mind, but for some reason, it kept jumping back to a kill that had taken place in the early game.

Round two had been about to begin, and he and his squad were moving from Artillery to the Wetlands, fully kitted, plenty of ammo on hand, with perhaps a little less shield cells than they would have liked, but lots of syringes to spare. Wraith had opened up a portal, scouting ahead to place its exit, when it had happened:

A grenade, sailing over his head, and landing right at his feet. Mirage and his other squadmate had turned heel and ran, but the blast still sent them to the ground. Their third squadmate (Halo, or something like that) had taken most of the damage, staggering where he stood and reaching for his shield cells to regenerate, but a booming shot rang through the air and Halo fell to his knees.

“Sniper!” Mirage called over their comms device, hoping Wraith could hear him from wherever the hell she’d run off to. He scrambled lower to the ground, a revive syringe in hand for Halo, but two more shots fired in rapid succession and killed him completely. Swallowing a curse, he managed to grab Halo’s banner off his body before sending a decoy in the opposite direction, hoping to distract the sniper. He ran low to the ground and knew his diversion had worked when he felt the familiar buzz of his decoy disappearing, having taken the hit for him.

He had glanced down at his minimap to see if Wraith was anywhere near him when something heavy and metal collided with the back of his head, causing him to stumble and fall against a rock. He hit his head sharply against it, the rough surface scraping down the side of his face and leaving an awful lot of blood and grit on his skin. Mirage unholstered his Flatline, firing blindly at whatever had hit him. He heard metal clanking that sounded a lot like footsteps and an airy laugh.

_Octane._

One sniper, one Octane, and a third person, probably. At least he knew what he was working with. Somewhat.

Moving a hand up to staunch the flow of blood that was dripping into his eye, Mirage peeked around the corner to see Octane’s third squadmate jogging to meet up with him, clearly out of breath. He couldn’t run out into the open, not with the sniper, but staying here while Octane ran around screwing with him wasn’t a good idea either. He had one option, and that was his decoy escape.

He timed it just right; the moment he heard the telltale woosh of Octane using a jump pad to gain advantage, he cloaked himself while sending out two different decoys and hoping one would distract him. It worked: Octane had launched himself right at the furthest decoy with a cackle, clearly intending to knock it to the ground before firing into its head, but the decoy vanished the moment his foot made contact with it, and he faceplanted into the dirt with a squawk.

Fully invisible, Mirage snuck up behind the third member, shooting them three times in the head with his Wingman and kicking their downed body aside when they fell. His cloaking came undone as another shot fired at him, but the shot was way-off: either the sniper suddenly had horrible aim, or they were busy.

“Downed one,” came Wraith’s cool voice in his ear, and he grinned. That left Octane, who had to have realized by now that he was alone. Mirage used the other’s own jump pad to get a clear, overhead view of the area before falling back down, but strangely enough, he was nowhere in sight. Had he booked it back towards his sniper to revive them?

He was bouncing a second time when he saw a flash of green out of the corner of his eye, and turned mid-air to receive the shot to his abdomen.

It was not a killing blow, but the next one would most certainly be. He had a clear view of Octane now, racing towards him at full-speed, and did the only thing he could think of: shoot.

Half his bullets missed, and the ones that did hit didn’t seem to affect him much. No longer preventing the flow of blood into his eyes, his aim was poor, and his torso was throbbing with pain. He unhooked a grenade from his belt and dropped it at his feet, staggering away, and the blast knocked him to the ground, along with Octane. Clinging to a fraction of his health, Mirage blinked his eyes open, face turned to the side, and saw the masked man across from him, body tensing in preparation to spring back up.

He reacted without thinking: raised his hand, Wingman holding one last shot, before firing squarely between the other’s eyes. He was dead in an instant.

It was quick. It happened before he had even realized it. It wasn’t even that much of a fight. But it persisted after him, in the back of his mind, as he healed up, as Wraith respawned Halo. It nagged at him when he took Bangalore’s own weapon out of her hands, and when they were announced champions, it bothered him.

The game was over. They had twenty-one kills in total. Wraith had thirteen. Mirage had eight. And only one of them mattered.

* * *

Elliott Witt would never kill his own boyfriend. Never. Not in a million years would it ever cross his mind to bring harm to Octavio Silva. Not right now, when they were sleeping together, beneath the comfy blankets. Not later, when they ate breakfast together, undercooked pancakes and pulpy orange juice. It wouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t hurt the other.

Mirage was a separate person entirely from him. He was not Mirage. He could never be Mirage. He had once worn that name proudly on his chest like a badge, but with Octavio in his arms right now, it only brought him shame and discomfort.

“You’re thinking about it too hard,” Octavio had complained to him the one time he had brought it up. They were out, in the city, far away from the death of Kings Canyon. They had gone to his bar for a drink, and so he could check up on his employees, before wandering out to look at colorful, tourist-y stands and vibrant street artists. “We’re here for fun, cariño. It doesn’t matter. Just enjoy yourself.”

“How could I possibly enjoy k-k-killing you?” Elliott stuttered his way through the sentence, and it was drowned out by the clashing cymbals of a performer who stood on a corner, wearing a cheap bootleg of Bloodhound’s mask. Octavio pointed and laughed, in a way he had once interpreted as cruel and taunting, but now Elliott realized he really did just laugh like that. The laugh wiped Elliott’s mind clear of the subject, and he grasped his boyfriend’s hand and allowed the other to lead him through the crowded streets.

But it came back to him later. It always came back to him. Scrubbing at his skin, trying to get all the grime and blood and _ shame _off of him, because only the worst kind of person would kill Octavio Silva. Only a sick freak would raise a gun to him and fire and hope that it met its mark. And Elliott was better than that. 

But Mirage was the scum of the Earth.

* * *

New map. New terrain. New buildings to hide inside, to bleed out on their floors, to meet your death. 

Well, that was what Mirage was doing, anyways. Bleeding out on the ground, his last syringe having been used up ten minutes ago. His squadmates were hardly in any better shape: he was paired with Halo again, who was also bleeding out, while a third Nobody, nicknamed Mercury, ran around firing willy-nilly at anything that moved. She was over a hundred meters away from him, fighting something like three squads, and honestly, even if she was awfully far from him, he had to appreciate her ability to stay alive. Probably something to do with her tactical.

He did wish she was here to revive him, though.

Especially when he heard the familiar mechanical fotosteps of Octane beneath him.

It didn’t take long for the masked man to discover him, and when he did his head jerked around, clearly looking for the person who had done this to Mirage, just in case they were waiting to attack. Seeing no one, Octane approached with a spring in his step, clearly enjoying himself too much.

“Were you too slow, compadre?” Octane taunted, crouching beside Mirage, who could barely focus on him, what with his blackening vision and the horrible pain he was experiencing in his chest. He wanted to speak, but the blood he was barely keeping contained in his mouth would ruin his new suit. Well, it was probably ruined from all the bullets anyway.

“I think I’ll make this interesting,” Octane continued, straightening up and pulling out a grenade. Mirage watched him flip the thing in his hand, having way too much fun. He hated it. He hated it, he hated that this was the way he was going to die.

_ (You hate it because you hate losing, _ a tiny voice in his head was whispering. _ You’re not Elliott right now. This means nothing. You just don’t want to lose. _)

“Any last words?” Octane asked. 

Coughing wetly, he allowed the blood to dribble past his lips, swallowing the rest with a rather nauseous flipping sensation in his stomach. Glancing up at the other, he gave a grin, knowing his teeth must be stained an awful red color.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to play with your food?” He asked, and hated it. Hated it when Octane threw his head back and laughed, cruelly. Hated that he knew everyone watching probably got a good chuckle out of that. Hated that Elliott Witt—no, Mirage, had the audacity to face this situation and be okay with it. The grenade went off, and all he saw was black. Unbeknownst to him, right after he had died, a bullet hit Mercury, striking her in the back of her head, thus eliminating his squad entirely at fifth place.

* * *

“Fourth sucks,” Octavio whined. “Fourth. Eleven kills and fourth place. That’s a joke. I should have killed more.”

“Can we not discuss work while we’re eating dinner together?” Elliott asked, glancing up from his plate of curry. They were at a restaurant that had advertised itself as the spiciest joint on the planet. Octavio had taken two bites before declaring that he’d eaten spicier_ ice-cream _ than this. Whatever the hell that means.

“‘Work.’ Ugh, you’re so serious,” Octavio kept whining. “Don’t say ‘work’, that makes it sound boring.”

“Tavi. Please.”

“Fine.” Octavio crossed his arms over the table, leaning forward with a pout on his lips, clearly wanting Elliott to kiss him. He obliged, fighting back a smile when Octavio kissed him back harder, and when they withdrew he returned his attention to his food. The restaurant was rather quiet, which was good for Elliott’s anxiety, but it only made Octavio’s voice sound louder when he launched into explaining some horribly dangerous stunt he’d pulled when he was twenty.

Elliott smiled as Octavio described the ramp he’d used, making explosive sound effects. The curry was good, and spicy despite whatever Octavio claimed. It was a nice night, and they had a rare moment to themselves. Well, if you didn’t count the cook wiping down the counters.

“—and then I went all, WHA-BAM, into the air, and I actually needed seven stitches on my back!” Octavio finished, nearly knocking his drink over with his elbow. 

“Sounds horrible,” Elliott said, bemused. “You could have gotten seriously inj...injo...hurt.”

At this, Octavio tipped his head back and laughed. The line of his throat was exposed, vulnerable, the cropped sweater he was wearing providing little to no cover. And yet Elliott was the one who suddenly felt vulnerable, raw and exposed.

Blood. In his mouth, in his chest, his lungs, his throat. Heat everywhere, and somehow, at the same time, cold.

“Getting injured is the most fun part!” Octavio continued to laugh, and that laughter pierced Elliott’s skull as he closed his eyes, awaiting the explosion. Awaiting the blackness. 

And yet blackness never came.

Instead, a hand placed itself on his shoulder, and he flinched, horribly. He somehow managed to peel his eyes open, feeling uncomfortably clammy, before glancing to his right. Octavio had gotten to his feet, looking alarmed. It was an unusual look on his face, and the wide eyes and pursed lips only served to make Elliott feel uneasier.

“Bien?” Octavio asked, quietly. “Is it your anxiety? Are you having an attack right now?”

The words were stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t say them no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t even know what he _ would _ say. Nothing made sense to him right now, but he knew he wanted one thing, and that was to be alone.

“I’m headin’ home,” he found himself miraculously forming words, notably absent of his stutter. “To my apartment. I’m not—I’m not going to the compound.”

“Oh.” Octavio visibly deflated. “Oh. Well, let’s go together, then.”

“A-a-actually,” and here his stutter returned. “I wanna go by myself, ‘Tav. I miss home, and all. It’s been a while since I’ve had my own space. Without you.”

His boyfriend suddenly looked stiff, a muscle in his jaw twitching due to how hard he had suddenly clenched it.

“That’s fine,” Octavio said coolly. “Well. Thanks for the date.”

Normally, Elliott would have chased after him, calling his name, begging for him to understand that he didn’t mean it that way, that he didn’t feel good, and he just needed time to collect his thoughts. But not today. He watched Octavio pay for their meal in stony silence before leaving, not even looking back at him, and only felt pity for himself when he unlocked his apartment door half an hour later and collapsed onto his couch.

Octavio would never lay a grenade at his feet. He would never walk up to Elliott, bleeding to death, and finish the job. He would never. Never ever ever. And Elliott would never kill Octavio, either. He would never put a gun against his head, would never fire the bullet that would take his life. Never.

It sickened him to think that he had thought, for a moment, that his boyfriend would do that to him. He was just being paranoid and anxious. He was imagining things. Octavio was a good kid. A nice guy. A little rowdy, a little teasing. But good. Not cruel.

It was Octane who was cruel. They were two separate people entirely.

And so was Mirage. Mirage and Octane would kill each other. Elliott and Octavio—they never would. They couldn’t.

Falling into an uneasy sleep, Elliott repeated this mantra in his head, wrapped up in a blanket and curled into a ball.

Octavio forgave him fairly easily the next day. He wasn’t one to hold grudges, but he did rather meanly say to Elliott “Oh, so _now_ you wanna spend time with me?” when he entered the other’s room, but well, he deserved that. And they had sex right after, which meant they were totally good now.

Probably.

Elliott did not mention his little episode the night before—he wasn’t sure how he would explain it, anyways, and besides, the last time he had brought that sort of thing up, Octavio had dismissed him. It clearly didn’t bother the other, so why should he let it bother him?

“You worry too much,” his boyfriend said, interrupting his train of thought as he leaned over to press a kiss to his curls. “I can smell your anxiety from here. _ Chill, _ cariño.”

“Sorry,” Elliott said, turning his torso slightly to wrap his arms around the other. He felt warm and small in his hands, far from the dangerous imposing figure of Octane. 

(He wasn’t supposed to be thinking of that right now, fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck)

“We have a game today!” Octavio said, only serving to make the matter worse. “We can let our frustrations out in the arena instead of taking them out on each other!”

“Yeah?” A feeling of excitement battled with the dawning sense of foreboding that accompanied the news of games nowadays. “S-s-see you there.”

They kissed, gently at first, until Octavio tugged at the hair on the back of his neck and pushed him down onto the bed, lips moving against his with far too much passion. But he was used to it. And he liked it.

He liked this. He liked Octavio. He _ trusted _him, and might even be too attached to him. But this thing with Octavio was good, and if he could just get his head to shut up and agree with his heart, everything would be fine.

_ Rinse and repeat, _ his head argued back with him, taunting him, flooding his brain with images of blood and mangled biotic limbs. _ Rinse and repeat. _

* * *

Top ten. Not great, but pretty good. A Kraber and a R-99 on hand. Five kills. Two respawns. Today was his day.

Aiming down his scope, he positioned the crosshair over a distant head bobbing among the snow and fired. It broke their armor, and one more shot downed them. A teammate rushed to their aid, out in the open, and bent to revive them. Downed them, too. Man, newbie squads were so easy.

“You’re giving away our position,” one of his squadmates complained. His name might have been Bolt. “What if someone tries to catch us off-guard?”

“That’s why you two are watching my back,” Mirage said dismissively, waiting for the third squadmate to appear. The third one seemed to be at least a little wiser if they weren’t rushing out to help their bud—actually, scratch that, there they went, sliding down a hillside to come to their aid. Boom. All dead. Eight kills under his belt. He could win this, easy. Maybe finally break Crypto’s winning streak.

“Mirage,” Bolt whined. Their third teammate (Salem?) rolled her eyes. “I don’t like this.”

“Go somewhere else, then. I’ve won solo before.”

Neither of them argued, but they clearly didn’t like the situation. Salem gave a huff and went to lay bear traps while Bolt stood beside him, rather useless in long-range combat. The announcer boomed out that the champion had just died, which, ha, take that, Crypto. A new kill leader was announced. Bloodhound. 

Mirage took down two more people by the time round three began, and he realized he’d need to move to a different building if he didn’t want to get caught outside the ring. Slinging the Kraber onto his back and unclipping the R-99 instead, he realized with a jolt that his team had abandoned him. Checking his minimap, he saw that they were on the opposite side of Capitol City, and he groaned. He was lucky he hadn’t been snuck up on while sniping.

He was on a roll today, anyways, and he had the feeling that even if someone had gotten the jump on him, he could’ve taken them out no problem. There was a spring in his step as he jogged out in the open area, feeling good about himself. This was the Mirage he was used to being, the Mirage that everybody loved. 

Noticing movement up ahead, he slowed to a stop, and climbed a few cold railings onto a balcony so he wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the open. Unholstering the Kraber once again, he glanced through the optics, making out movement through the windows of a building.

Gibraltar’s big frame was hard to miss, even from this distance. He was picking up ammo, a good-natured grin on his face as he said words he couldn’t hear. His second squadmate was someone Mirage didn’t recognize, but the third made him pause. Octane, looking laughably small next to the massive man beside him, and only made smaller when he sat down and became unnaturally still. He was doing something to his leg, and Mirage realized that something must have happened to it.

_ Take the shot, _his brain urged him, crosshairs focused on Octane’s bent head. A rare moment of stillness. An easy pick. He’d be dead before he could get back up.

Gibraltar moved upstairs, his other teammate following, while Octane remained on the floor, now using a screwdriver to mess with something internally. Mirage's good mood had faded entirely now, replaced by a droning buzz in his head that threatened to deafen him.

_ Take the shot. _

Why was Octane being so still? Didn’t he realize there was a window right there that anybody could shoot him through?

_ Take the shot. _

Octane tilted his head to the side, clearly laser-focused on his leg. His time was running out. Mirage’s finger twitched over the trigger, and he wanted to gulp, but his mouth had become extremely dry. The droning got louder, blocking out the rest of the world, and he couldn't focus on anything other than Octane.

_ You can’t take the shot, _ a voice that sounded scarily like Elliott Witt screamed at him. _ Don’t you know who that is? Do you really want to hurt him? _

_ Shut up. _ Mirage grit his teeth, fighting back both Elliott Witt's voice and the droning. _ Shut up. This is a game. _

“What are you doing?”

He jumped. Badly. His finger, previously over the trigger, pulled it on instinct. Three hundred meters away, Octane collapsed to the ground, blood splattering the wall behind him. Not dead. Just downed.

“Oh. You got Octane?” Salem asked, surprised, before pulling out her own Triple Take. “I got him.”

Before Mirage could say anything, she fired, and he knew that when she lowered her gun with a satisfactory hum that he was now truly dead.

“Let’s get a move on,” she said, gently placing her fingers on his shoulder. “We’ve blown our cover.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you sniped me like that,” Octavio complained later. “How cold-blooded are you? You see me working on my leg and decide it’s an opportunity? Ouch.”

Elliott held up a seven of hearts, distracting the other briefly. “Is this your card?”

Octavio was clearly trying not to smile, but the corners of his lips turned up, almost like he was fondly exasperated. “Nah.”

Elliott shuffled the cards again, surprised by how steady his hands were even though his heart was thrumming in his chest and he felt like it was getting harder to breathe.

“I hate snipers,” Octavio kept saying, oblivious to Elliott's state. “I mean, no offense to you, but—”

“This?”

“No again. Isn’t the point of a magic trick to get it on the first try?”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you shuffled them yourself,” Elliott shot back, before taking a deep breath, trying to calm his frazzled nerves.

_ Chill out. You think too much. _ Octavio's voice was becoming commonplace in his thoughts every time he started to get like this. _ It's not a big deal. You're overreacting. _

“I guess eighth isn’t so bad.” Octavio uncrossed his legs only to cross them again, checking his phone with a disinterested expression. “But I haven’t actually won in a while. It’s irritating me.”

“Tav, can we not talk about this right now?” He shuffled twice more before extracting a king of diamonds. He held it up in silence, and Octavio’s eyes flickered from the card in his hand to the rest of the deck, clearly debating something. His lips pursed, almost like he was biting something back.

“Yeah,” he finally relented, and Elliott felt, for some reason, that that was not the truth. “That’s my card. Want to watch a movie?”

They found themselves on Elliott’s bed, on top of the covers and watching some drama flick from thirty years ago. Octavio laid in his arms, legs having been pulled off and now resting in the corner of the room. Elliott placed his nose against Octavio’s head, burying it in the other’s hair, and inhaled. He smelled nice. He always smelled nice. Sure, he also smelled like a runner—sweaty and like deodorant—but there was an underlying fresher scent that he couldn’t quite place. Maybe mint, or pine.

Elliott wasn’t really paying attention to the movie. He was trying hard to focus on the fact that Octavio was breathing beside him, and not bleeding out in a building some three hundred meters away.

The echoing_ crack _ of the Kraber firing was all he could hear, and it was making him angry. How many times has he done this same exact routine, over and over again? How many times has his vision been filled with white, how many times has he heard the echoes of gunshots long after a match has ended?  
How many times has he killed Octavio?

_ Octane, _a voice told him firmly.

But what was the difference? Was there _ any _difference?

His fingers tightened, digging into soft flesh, and Octavio shifted uncomfortably.

“Ow.”

“Sorry,” Elliott said, and shifted his arms before crossing them over his chest, turning away a little. No part of him was touching the other now. Less of a chance to hurt him. Less of a chance to kill him.

_ Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. _

“Hey,” Octavio whined, but in a good-natured way. “Come baaaack.”

“My arms are sore,” Elliott lied, and flipped over so he was now facing the wall. The movie went on, forgotten, behind him, and he felt Octavio sit up. 

“Something’s wrong.”

“What?”

“With you.” He felt a cold finger poke at the back of his neck and flinched. “Estás cansado?”

“Yeah,” Elliott said, closing his eyes. “Very.”

There was a long pause.

“Liar,” Octavio said. His palm moved down Elliott’s neck, slipping under his shirt, before pressing over his sternum. The coldness of the other's hand made his skin prickle uncomfortably as Octavio dug his nails into the soft flesh of Elliott's chest.

“Your heart.” Octavio’s nails dug in even deeper when Elliott flinched again. “It’s going too fast.”

“I’m just,” and here Elliott decided to be somewhat honest, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized had been trapped inside him. “High-strung.”

“C’mere, then.” Another moment of shuffling passed, and then Octavio was pressed up behind him, slinging an arm over Eliott’s waist. “How often do I get to be big spoon?”

“Never,” Elliott murmured. “You’re too short.”

He received a harsh pinch to his bicep for that comment, but soon after felt Octavio press a surprisingly tender kiss to the back of his neck. His body relaxed, no longer feeling taut like a wire, and with Octavio’s breathing in his ear, he managed to fall asleep.

* * *

“Round two. Beginning ring countdown,” the cool female voice announced, echoing throughout the map. Her voice bounced off the walls, filling the air with a buzz, and flooding Mirage’s head with noise. Too much noise. Too much sensation.

Everyone was dead. All around him was death. His squad had been attacked by two teams at once. His own teammates had been killed completely, blood drenching the ground from when the bombardment had hit them. He’d killed Bangalore and her squad while they were occupied with Lifeline’s squad. He’d watched every bullet hit its mark, piercing Bangalore’s neck and shredding through the stupid chainmail armor her teammate donned. Lifeline was weakened from the bombardment herself, recharging her shields by the time Mirage had come around to finish her off.

He had never quite understood the term _ bloodbath _ until the moment he’d killed her and started slipping in the stuff as he searched for her teammates. He spotted one looting Bangalore’s deathbox and shot at him. He shot back with a scream, but was low on health, and dropped by the next shot. Mirage staggered forward, feeling something crack inside him. The other's bullet had fractured his ribs, getting dangerously close to piercing his lungs, and he felt bile rise in his throat.

Two more shots, and he was dead.

Mirage's head was buzzing with too much adrenaline as he crouched down and grabbed the level three armor, replacing his long-broken level two. He’d just jabbed a syringe into his arm when he saw movement up ahead, a figure bending down to pick up Lifeline’s banner before bolting towards him at full speed, clearly intent on grabbing his other teammate’s banner.

_ Octane. _

Why, why, why did it have to be him?

Why did it always have to be him?

Why did he always have to kill him?

Mirage hadn’t even holstered his gun before healing up, so he reloaded it with a sort of exhausted finality to the way he put everything back in its place. Four bullets left. Better not waste them.

“Sorry, amigo, no time to play!” Octane laughed, sliding across the ground. Mirage’s first shot missed, hitting the grass behind him instead. He was being awfully carefree for someone wading through the blood of their own friends.

The second shot found Octane's lower back, and he stumbled, clearly surprised that it had managed to hit him.

“Okay, so that’s how you wanna do it,” Octane said, and the next thing Mirage knew he was receiving a full Peacekeeper blast to the chest. The ribs the syringe had barely managed to patch up cracked again, and this time he felt his throat fill up with blood instead of bile. One more shot and he’d die. Squad eliminated. Thirteenth place.

Except...

Except his hand raised, almost against his will. He had two more shots left. Better make them count.

And count they did.

Octane fell to the ground when the third bullet reached his chest. It got him right between his collarbones, the area not covered by his vest. He fell to the ground, but did not die, and that was when Mirage truly knew that the universe was out to get him.

Level four knockdown shield. Octane had always been able to snatch up good loot, even in the early game.

Mirage staggered over towards him, nearly sliding in the amount of blood from the other competitors. His chest was burning, on fire with pain, and yet his lungs felt like they were filled with ice. When he tried to sigh out a breath he’d been holding, all that came out was blood. His head was aching and his ears were ringing. He just wanted this to be _ over _ with.

Octane was on the ground, drenched completely in his own blood. His hands were scrabbling for purchase in the dirt in an attempt to push himself up and revive. He seemed, for the first time, in Mirage’s eyes, truly weak. On his last leg, to use a rather inappropriate metaphor.

“Hey,” Octane wheezed, voice shaking from the amount of adrenaline he must be experiencing right now. “I feel like you’re always the one killing me lately.”

_ Shut up. Don’t talk to me like that. Like we’re friends. Like we care. _

_ We don’t care in here. _

Mirage moved his hand, aiming to shoot Octane and kill him for good. But there was only one bullet left in the Wingman's chamber. It wasn’t enough to kill him. He’d need two shots, or else he’d be leaving the other to bleed out, or possibly revive himself. He didn’t want him to revive, but he didn’t want to sit here and watch him bleed out to make sure he was eliminated. He was sick of all this blood. He was covered in the stuff. He was practically swimming through it. It was painting Octane’s stupid little green crop-top red.

One bullet wasn’t enough.

Mirage dropped to his knees, robotically reaching towards Octane. His fingers found the soft material of his jacket first, before passing right over the wound he’d left in his chest. He could feel the blood seeping underneath his fingernails, and knew it would take days to get rid of the feeling.

“C-compadre?”

Fear. An unusual emotion, coming from Octavio.

_ Not Octavio. Octane. _

Yes. He was in the arena right now, next to Octane, and his hand was wrapping itself around his throat, fingers slippery with blood and breath coming out in short bursts from both men.

“What—”

Octane sounded shocked, uncomprehending. Mirage noticed now that his goggles had cracked sometime during the battle, exposing one green eye to the world. An eye that was currently focused on him, wide, unbelieving.

One hand wasn’t enough, either. It wasn’t killing him fast enough. Mirage brought his other hand over, adjusting to press his fingers even harder against the other’s windpipe. Weak hands clawed at him, trying to pull him away, trying to stop the strangulation, but he had lost too much blood, and his strength failed him.

Octane couldn’t speak now, just choke. Mirage himself felt like he was going to choke at any moment too, whether it be from his pierced lungs or the blood in his throat or the short gasps he was managing, almost like he was trying to make up for the breath he was stealing away from Octavio.

_ Octavio. _

He was killing him with his bare hands. Strangling him, crushing his windpipe, hands wrapped around his throat and watching the life drain from his eyes. He couldn’t stop it. Elliott couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop his fingers from tightening even more, couldn’t stop watching Octavio’s eye drift close as though he were merely going to take a nap.

“Elliott,” Octavio choked out, and Elliott’s breath hitched.

“Shut up,” he said, voice dangerously close to a beg. “You should be dead.”

Tighter, tighter, tighter. His heart was thumping hard in his chest. There was so much blood, everywhere. The Ring was going to close in on them at any moment now. 

“Elliott.” Octavio’s voice came out clearer, and Elliott hated it, he fucking hated that he’d put himself through this, gone through the effort to kill the other with his bare hands when it became clear that he didn’t have enough bullets to do the job. He should have walked away, let the other revive, and gladly taken the loss. He should have allowed Octavio to fire his Peakeeper once more, to fill his head with even more wounds, and yet here he was, hands around half a corpse that was still _ breathing. _

“_Elliott!_”

His pillow was suspiciously wet. Way too wet to be normal. It took him a moment to realize that he was in his room, and that the voice he had heard was Octavio shaking him awake, clearly worried. Elliott slowly peeled his eyes open, looking down at his fingers that were tearing into his bedsheet, knuckles white and palms clammy.

“What’s up?” He asked groggily, managing to pull himself into a sitting position. He raised one of his hands to his cheeks and realized that they were wet, too. He must have been crying in his sleep.

“Well...” When Octavio spoke it was with a strange emotion Elliott had never heard before. At least, not from the other man. It was unusual, unsettling, and he never wanted to hear it again. “You were crying in your sleep.”

“That happens sometimes,” Elliott coughed, voice rough. He decided to finally look over at his boyfriend, and faltered when he saw the state he was in. His face was pale, hair disheveled from sleep and eyes wide. He didn’t look too well—in fact, he looked beyond pale, with almost a grayish tint to his skin. Sickly, almost.

_ Did I do that? _ Elliott thought to himself. He didn’t know how he could have done that. What had made the other so worried? He couldn’t even remember what he’d been dreaming about. Perhaps he had made alarming noises. Was it the pumpkin dream again?..

“Are you okay?” Octavio asked.

“I’m fine.” Elliott scooched over to hug his boyfriend, to assuage his worries, but noticed the near-imperceptible wince the other gave when he drew nearer. Feeling somewhat hurt, he forced himself to stop, and brought a hand up to run through his curls to give himself something to do.

“What were you dreaming about?” Octavio asked, but he sounded like he didn’t really want to know. Like he didn’t really want to ask in the first place.

“I don’t know,” Elliott said with a shrug, and it was the truth. “Probably something bad though, if I was crying.”

They were silent for several long minutes. Elliott counted the seconds in his head, starting from sixty and working his way down, starting over and over again four times until Octavio moved towards the edge of his bed, reaching for his legs.

“Oh, need help?” Elliott stretched over to help him, but his hand was knocked out of the way rather harshly.

“No,” Octavio said, voice returning to its light tone like nothing had happened. “I’m going for a walk.”

Elliott blinked, watching his boyfriend get ready with a mixture of hurt and confusion boiling inside him. A flash of anger cut through his thoughts, and he wanted to scream, for some reason. He didn’t know what was going on, or why Octavio was acting that way, but it was pissing him off. He felt like he was missing a very large piece of the puzzle. He chose not to voice any of this out loud, though he felt like Octavio could tell anyways.

He wanted to ask what was wrong, but honestly didn't think he'd get an answer from the other anyways. Besides, if he had a problem, he'd tell Elliott about it, right?

Octavio got to his feet, stretching his limbs, before moving quickly towards the door, almost like he couldn’t wait to leave. However, with his hand on the handle, he paused, like he was debating something, before turning to look at Elliott.

“Elliott,” he said with a false half-smile, and for some reason, Elliott felt like his whole body had just been dunked into freezing cold water. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

_ Yes. _

_ There is so much I want to talk about. _

_ There is so much I need to tell you. _

_ “You think too much,” _ the voice inside his head that sounded like Octavio said, distinctly amused. _ “Who cares about all that stuff? It’s just fun and games.” _

“No,” Elliott said, not ready to be dismissed like last time, and besides, he was too tired for this. His pillow was wet, his hair was a mess, and his boyfriend was acting strange. “No, I’m fine.”

Octavio’s out-of-character expression tightened, for a brief second, before relaxing.

“Okay,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

Elliott waited for the sound of his footsteps to fade before laying back down, using Octavio's pillow, which was mercifully dry. Huh. 

Deciding to glance at what time it was, he saw that it was four in the morning, and thought that it was way too early for Octavio to be taking any kind of walk right now. They had a game later too, and he'd need all the rest he could get.

_ A game. _

Elliott frowned, feeling strangely hollow on the inside as his fists clenched over his bed covers. That's right. Another game. One of many more opportunities to kill Octavio, and ore of many more opportunities for Octavio to kill him. He suddenly felt sick.

_ Rinse and repeat. _

**Author's Note:**

> i always felt like mirage would be the one legend that woulf suffer the most if forced to kill his s/o over and over. hence this
> 
> shout out to jami for encouraging me and being so nice to talk to!!
> 
> [tumblr](https://seerofmike.tumblr.com)  
[twitter](https://twitter.com/tsodmike?s=09)  
[surprise](https://youtu.be/rfsyFrTIF_U)


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